


The Missionary Man

by the_prose_in_which_the_filth_dwells (the_one_in_which_the_filth_dwells)



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Ghost B.C.
Genre: 1st person, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Monologue, Overstimulation, Ritual Sex, Satanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 15:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16537391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_one_in_which_the_filth_dwells/pseuds/the_prose_in_which_the_filth_dwells
Summary: The missionary man only comes when we least expect it.He is a man of splendor and majesty, enveloped in black robes that shimmer with gold in the light. The mitre upon his head holds the gravity of a crown, but you can see in the way he carries himself that he has always been more than a king.When I was young, I was brave enough to ask the missionary man if he was an angel. I had heard the stories, and at the time believed he was one of those beautiful tales made flesh.The missionary man let out a laugh as sweet as the heavens, yet explained to me that he was not an angel, but a creature of the fires beneath us.“Though the heavens may be bright, my dear, their light is searing and blinding. The fire is warmer- the fire is home.”





	The Missionary Man

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going through old stuff that I figured I'd post. This was written before Popestar was released, when the titles of the tracks were leaked but not the actual music. It's an interpretation of the vibe that Missionary Man could have had-- though we all know now that the actual Missionary Man is far, far from this.

The missionary man only comes when we least expect it.

He is a man of splendor and majesty, enveloped in black robes that shimmer with gold in the light. The mitre upon his head holds the gravity of a crown, but you can see in the way he carries himself that he has always been more than a king.

 

When I was young, I was brave enough to ask the missionary man if he was an angel. I had heard the stories, and at the time believed he was one of those beautiful tales made flesh.

The missionary man let out a laugh as sweet as the heavens, yet explained to me that he was not an angel, but a creature of the fires beneath us.

“Though the heavens may be bright, my dear, their light is searing and blinding. The fire is warmer- the fire is home.”

 

As I grew older, the missionary man never wavered in his grace or charm. His face stayed timeless, and his mismatched eyes remained glinting with the flames he worshiped.

I began to hang on to the sermons he preached, cherishing the passion in his movements and the devotion in his words. He was beautiful, magnetic.

 

I came to love him as much as I revered him.

 

* * *

 

 

When the missionary man comes I fall to my knees in supplication before him- hoping he will bless me with a single touch. His gaze feels like velvet on my skin, and goosebumps rise to meet it.

As his leather clad fingers brush my cheek, I can’t help but shiver at his electric touch. It is like being caressed by a god; I feel so small in comparison.

 

The missionary man graces me with a pleased expression as he looks upon the adoration that is on my face. He helps me to my feet and beckons for me to follow him to the temple of his dark god.

I, spellbound, could never refuse- even if I wanted to.

  


The temple of the fiery god is beautiful in the flickering light of the torches on the walls, but I can hardly find myself caring for deities when the missionary man is standing before me. His very presence is hypnotizing.

He sweeps me into his arms with ease that no mortal could possess, and carries me to the altar of his god. I can only gaze up at him in wonder as he lays me on the stone slab like a treasured offering.

 

The missionary man undresses me with the care of an experienced lover, murmuring prayers to his god as he works.

This is a ritual, not love, but I happily give myself to him as if it were.

I feel beautiful when he smooths his gloved hands over my newly bared skin, and arch up into his caress. But that is not enough: I ache to touch his handsome countenance in return.

Hesitantly I reach out, cupping his cheek. Though the skeletal visage his face paint conjures is artificial, the skin beneath it is cold and smooth like marble. He is no human.

He is something more.

 

Though the missionary man sets his mitre aside, he does not remove his robes when he joins me on the altar. I am his god’s offering- he is but the disciple.

Chants and prayers are whispered into my skin as he plays my body like a well tuned instrument. I am helpless under his attention, giving voice to my pleasure through desperate cries and whimpers.

Pinned under his heated stare like I am, it does not take long for me to lose myself. The first time he brings me to my peak I quiver and shake, writhing on the cold stone. My voice is as tremulous as my body when I moan. The missionary man steadily murmurs the rites of the ritual as he holds me still.

 

Not giving me time to recover, the missionary man’s hand slips between my legs again. He keeps me pinned with the other arm as I beg him for a reprieve- my senses are completely overwhelmed.

Soon enough, though, under his practiced hand my words become a plead for release. The tension in my core is building, and there's so much of it that I think I might burst.

“Come for me,” he commands. I can only comply, my voice rising higher into a scream as he wrings another climax from my shaking body. He coaxes me through it with perfect, experienced touches.

 

I am capable of little coherent thought as I come down from my high, panting and slack-jawed. I barely process what the missionary man is doing, staring up at the temple’s ceiling until I feel his hard length brush against my slick entrance.

My struggles are feeble as I try and make some sort of verbal protest. For him to do anything more to me so soon would be too overwhelming.  

He presses into me slowly, murmuring prayers to his god while I whimper and shift. (Whether I squirm to get away or to get closer, neither of us know.) Again he has given me no reprieve, and the sensation of having him above me and inside me and all around me is too much too much __too much_. _

The missionary man is relentless as he increases the pace of his movements. His head settles in the crook of my neck, and I can feel as well as hear him whispering into my skin. It is not the sweet or loving words of adoration that I have always longed for- nothing but another rite for this ceremony. With what little rational thought I have left, I find myself jealous of the missionary man’s dark god.

My hands claw at his still clothed back, trying to find some sort of grip as I shudder and cry out against him. His thrusts are powerful and merciless, and the pleasure that they bring is on the brink of painful. I can barely withstand it.

A scream wrenches itself out of my chest as his hand slithers between us to press down on my most sensitive spot, which is still overstimulated from his previous ministrations. The pleasure is white hot, searing, and too much to bear.

“Stop, stop!” I beg him between moans and broken whimpers. All he does, however, is thrust harder. I can only cry out as tears of pleasure -pain?- spring to my eyes. I cannot tell which is which anymore.

The missionary man’s grip tightens as I clench around his length, and soon enough I can feel his heat as he spills into me. He is strangely silent through his pleasure- the only indication of it is a soft hitch in his breathing. Rather than relenting in his movements, however, he continues and presses his thumb harder into my sensitive flesh.

My third climax comes as quickly and explosively as a lightning strike. My muscles seize up and I jerk beneath him, letting out another rough scream. Blood roars in my ears and darkness encroaches into my vision, and for a split second I am certain that this is what death feels like.

The missionary man’s burning eyes are the last thing I see before everything goes black.

  


* * *

 

 

When I awake, I am fully clothed and back in the bed I have slept in since I was a child. I am in a familiar place: my own bedchamber.

For a moment, I am convinced that the entire experience was just an intense dream. I try not to feel disappointed, but the feeling is crushing.

As I sit up, however, I yelp as the muscles in my abdomen scream in protest. Just about every part of me is sore, and a clear testament to the fact that the events of last night actually happened.

If you had told me this was going to happen before it actually did, I would have been overjoyed at the thought that I got to sleep with the missionary man. But now, having experienced his overwhelming presence and his relentless, almost cruel manipulation of my pleasure...

I don’t know whether to be happy or afraid.

 

* * *

 

 

The bruises the missionary man left eventually fade, but my memories of that night remain sharp and clear. When I close my eyes, all I can see are his own mismatched pair. His voice is constantly echoing in my ears, exquisite and maddening all at once.

Whether I am asleep or awake, he haunts me. And though my uneasy fear of him remains, I find myself desperately longing for his return. His touch, I’ve found, is like a drug. I think I might die without it.

 

But the missionary man only comes when we least expect it.


End file.
